


The Supplicant

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bestiality, Dubious Consent, cryptic gnostic bullshit, kink meme fill, things I will one day regret writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a kink meme prompt. As the prompt says, <i>Because who </i>wouldn't<i> want to see a giant fire lion man snake fondle a human teenager while babbling about cryptic gnostic bullshit.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Supplicant

When the time comes, you face your denizen alone. It takes pitifully little to convince Jake to raid some side tomb in the Lion's Mouth by himself. You would have spun him a convincing thread if he asked for the reason you needed to split up, but he doesn't. Cheerful and oblivious, he prances off with nary a backward glance.  
  
You wait for him to disappear from view, and then a little longer, to be sure, and only then do you open the doors.  
  
Torches spontaneously blaze to life, and though you're sick to double death of fire by this point, they provide some much needed light in the chamber. You step into the room, sword gripped in your hand, and the doors close behind you. You don't even hear them close, you just feel a slight shift in the air as they do.  
  
In the deeper shadows of the chamber, something shifts. Shadows dance between massive pillars as the torchlight flickers, and you can hear something. A crunch of sand, a smooth, sinuous sound like the unsheathing of a sword.  
  
An array of possibilities presents itself to you now. You assess what you know of your denizen, and you decide on the course of action most likely to get you what you want. It will not be modesty, or flattery. It will not be recklessness either.  
  
“Yaldabaoth,” you say out loud. Your voice does not echo, but it carries in the still air and reaches every corner of the chamber. “I am here.”  
  
Only now he appears, slithering out of the shadows. The crunch of sand and dust under his snake belly is disconcertingly loud as he gets close.  
  
“So comes the supplicant to this one's house,” he says. His face remains still. His eyes are narrowed, merciless pits, and his mouth is unmoving, frozen in an expression of contempt. “Be he worthy?”  
  
“I do not come as a supplicant,” you reply, keeping your face blank and your voice empty of any emotional stirring. “I don't ask for anything you wouldn't be willing to offer.”  
  
“What does the boy come as, then, hmm? This old one wonders,” Yaldabaoth continues.  
  
He moves smoothly towards you, brings his face down to meet your and you look up at him, gaze unflinching. His face is metal, carved into its cruel expression, and you imagine yours to be the same, solid and metallic, incapable of motion. But your face is blank, it says nothing, it lets Yaldabaoth see whatever he wishes to see in it.  
  
“The boy brings a sword,” Yaldabaoth muses, and twists his body suddenly. You don't flinch. You keep your feet planted and your shoulders thrown back.   
  
Yaldabaoth doesn't attack, he only turns to go around you. He is not as big at the statue of him on the surface, but he is more real, more solid than the monument. Under his scales, you see muscles moving, you see carefully contained strength and the potential for violence.  
  
“The boy brings a sword, but is he a warrior?” he asks.  
  
You stifle the urge to lick your lips.  
  
“I am,” you say.  
  
You can't see the denizen's reaction to this statement. He stops moving behind you, but then it startles you when his voice comes from somewhere close to your ear.  
  
“Does the sword make the boy a warrior?” he asks, his voice paper-dry and unforgiving.  
  
“No,” you reply.  
  
This must please Yaldabaoth, because he continues moving, reaching a full-circle around you and sliding over his own body. You are surrounded by him now. He's not smothering you, he has left you plenty of space a few feet in every direction, but you feel trapped either way. You know you could escape, flashstep away, so you carefully press down your panic, but you still remain vigilant.  
  
“Good, then the boy may relinquish his sword,” Yaldabaoth says.  
  
This is unexpected, but you planned for this contingency. You have other swords in your sylladex, releasing this one would be nothing but a symbolic gesture. You are not defenseless.  
  
You carefully place your sword down on the ground.  
  
Yaldabaoth regards it for a moment, before the end of his tail reaches down, curls around the sheath and picks it up. You don't see what happens with it once it leaves your sight. You are surrounded by writhing reptilian body on all sides, as Yaldabaoth has curled himself several times around you. It disturbs you that you did not even notice it until now.  
  
“Does the boy get a ticket for the sword?” you ask. “He sure wouldn't want to get someone else's shitty sword by accident on the way out.”  
  
You don't manage to get any rise out of Yaldabaoth with your snitty comment, and you think you might have revealed how nervous you are.  
  
The denizen moves again, encroaches on your personal space as he brings his head up to yours. The spiraled horns that make the sun rays around his head have sharp edges. They glint in the firelight.  
  
“The boy wears only pride as armor,” Yaldabaoth says, as he carefully tilts his head this way and that. “But pride does not protect, it cuts.”  
  
As if to illustrate his point, Yaldabaoth swings his head suddenly. You still don't flinch, which is for the best, because the sharp tip of his horn cuts your tank top cleanly from collarbone to hem. A flinch would have ended with you picking up your guts from the floor.  
  
“It cuts under the skin,” Yaldabaoth continues, his breath tickling over your chest. It's warm and smells vaguely metallic.  
  
Your lips are dry. You lick them as Yaldabaoth looks away. Then you realize he doesn't look away, he is only turning his head so another of his horns comes up to your shoulder. The strap of your tank top is cut as well. You skin, once again, is not even grazed. Yaldabaoth is an instrument of precision, in control of himself to a degree you would never have guessed. You watch the red scales of his body shifting with a new found appreciation for the denizen.  
  
You let the remains of your shirt fall to the floor. Yaldabaoth moved his head behind yours. When he talks, his breath warms your back.   
  
“Pride is empty vanity. Pride is complacency. Pride is stagnation and the death of true self inside the monument you build to it. And the boy has many selves yet.”  
  
“I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that, perhaps you could enumerate a few more thousand ways in which pride is the crucible of death and despair?” you say, just a touch petulant.  
  
“If the boy understands this, then why does the boy not show something which makes him worthy of standing in this one's presence?” Yaldabaoth asked.  
  
He twisted again, in front of you this time, his face coming up against the side of your head.  
  
He places his chin against your shoulder. Barely a touch.  
  
“What does the boy Dirk Strider offer to this old one?” he asks, and his voice vibrates down your entire body. “Does the boy think that he himself is enough?”  
  
“I think I could be,” you say carefully.  
  
“The boy seeks words to appease, yet even he does not know what he speaks,” the denizen says. He doesn't move his head from its position. You can see him out the corner of your eye, but his unmoving face is of no direct interest to you.  
  
You focus on his voice, firm and dry and self-assured. You focus on keeping your body still, but relaxed. You notice the warmth of Yaldabaoth seeping into you, the heat off his body and his breath, the confusing tingle. The apprehension his presence fill you with, but also the vivid feeling danger and excitement. You could die here, you realize. You could, but you don't think you will. You have confidence in your abilities. Not pride. Confidence, based on knowledge of your skills and capabilities.  
  
“Does the boy think he is worthy of bargaining with the old one?” Yaldabaoth asks.  
  
“I think I could be,” you repeat.  
  
“Could,” Yaldabaoth says. “Yes. Could.”  
  
He turns his head. The tip of his spiraled horn follows the lines of your chest down. It stops at your belt, and then it cuts through it.  
  
Something inside you jolts sharply when you realize what he's aiming for. If you weren't so sure that a giant snake monster probably doesn't have any junk to diddle and thus no way of getting a weird kick out of this situation, you'd be more worried, but there's probably some perfectly valid, mystical reason that he's cutting you pants to ribbons right now.  
  
Oh god that horn is sharp. You can feel the tip against your thighs. It isn't an unpleasant sensation, not even close. That's probably what's worrying you the most, right now, that you have to will yourself not to get a boner.  
  
Your pants are cut down to your knees, and your boxers with them. You stand exposed, but you aren't cold, surrounded as you are by Yaldabaoth's body head.  
  
The tip of the horn, finished ruining your pants, traces a slow path back up your thigh. The horn is warm, but there's a cold shiver following its trail. Your dick twitches as the horn passes by it and continues upward across your belly.  
  
It stops under the point of your chin and presses warningly. You tilt your chin up, obey the sharp edge. You end up looking at the ceiling, your head tilted back completely. It's hard to breathe, and this is the most inconvenient time imaginable to realize that this might be another thing you might be into. When you stepped into Yaldabaoth's chamber, you fully expected to learn some new things about yourself, but you didn't think most of those things would be sexual in nature.  
  
Okay, well. No reason to believe a game-generated entity would know what a boner is, even if it's staring him in the face. As long as you don't act embarrassed, you could easily gloss it over.  
  
You feel the tip of the horn pull back, and you cautiously lower your chin. You see only Yaldabaoth's coiled red body in front of you, but then the tip of his tail slithers over it and comes towards you.  
  
You're not sure what to expect. The tail tip reaches your foot and then goes around your leg once. It's fairly thin, less thick at the very end than half your wrist, and it's even more nimble than the rest of Yaldabaoth's body. It makes it way up your leg.  
  
It occurs to you that it's going to brush against your boner, which will most definitely not help matters. You absolutely do not want this to happen, but you watch intensely as it comes closer, inch by inch, you anticipate the moment it's going to touch your dick—ultimate fucking irony, Yaldabaoth has no idea he's about to fondle your junk,  _the joke's definitely on him_ —and then--  
  
Then the tail tip gives your dick a wide berth, curling over your hip. You have only a few seconds to feel cheated and reprimand yourself for these feelings, before it takes another unexpected turn. It curls back down, going between your legs, and pressing against your balls from behind, and then it comes out in front again and very matter-of-factly curls itself around your dick.  
  
Shit.  _Shit_. You are definitely getting molested by a snake monster. You were very, very wrong. He knows what a boner is for. Your chicken is definitely getting choked right now.  
  
And this time, you flinch.  
  
And then you flail in a manner that would have you stripped of your black belt in cool had it been witnessed by anyone else. You can feel your brother shake his head in disappointment from beyond the grave, and then get on his skateboard and gently float into space out of sheer shame of having a twerp like you share his DNA.

You fall back, and you catch yourself on Yaldabaoth's body, leaning against two different coils placed one over the other like a convenient couch.   
  
You have no intention of sitting on that guy while he tailfucks you. Instead, you fall to your knees.  
  
The tail begins moving. It pumps you with sure strokes, and the first few times, you have to clench your jaw so you don't whimper. The scales feel strange against your skin, both smooth and abrasive.   
  
You don't make any noise. You never do, not even when you masturbate—and for now, that has been the entirety of your sexual experience, limited though it may be. And you certainly wouldn't moan for anyone, much less for Yaldabaoth.  
  
But you can hear your harsh breath, coming a bit louder than usual. You brace yourself with your hands against the floor and fist your hands in the sand, trying to calm your breath and your heartbeat. You mostly manage. After the initial thrill dies down, the grip of the tail feels almost a bit uncomfortable.  
  
“The boy did not come as a supplicant,” Yaldabaoth says from somewhere above you and to the left, “yet he kneels nonetheless.”  
  
You think you detect a hint of amusement in Yaldabaoth's voice. Oh, so suddenly he's a sassy bitch.  
  
You press your lips tightly together and school your features into neutrality when you feel him move again. The tail continues its work undaunted. You're beginning to get used to its mechanical motions.  
  
He doesn't come into view, though. He lurks behind you somewhere. Then you feel it, the bladed tip of a horn, touching your sides.  
  
Your hips buck almost imperceptibly, but you're sure the smug bastard felt it.  
  
The horn moves up across your back and ends up against your cheek. You can feel the way it presses against your skin just slightly, so soft it could very well not be a blade at all. If it moved lower, it would press against your neck, your jugular. You'd have to, to stay very still, so you wouldn't...  
  
Fuck, you just moved your hips again. No. You won't give the bastard the satisfaction.  
  
The horn moves up instead of down (and you're not disappointed, not a bit) and hooks the leg of your shades. It pushes up more, setting your shades askew, but you move your head away from the blade so it doesn't knock them off.  
  
Just then, the tail gives an unexpectedly firm stroke and you flinch. The shades fall off.  
  
And a drop of blood follows it. You've nicked your ear on the horn. You can feel the tip burning a bit, though it's only a scratch.  
  
The horn hooks around the shades and throws them out of your reach in one smooth motion.  
  
It's only this gesture that finally feels like a hit below the belt, even though he's already in the process of fondling your meat truncheon. Hey, jack me off and we're golden, but mess with my tacky eyewear and you are way out of line! Nice priorities, Strider! This is definitely the proper baseline for personal limits.  
  
“The boy came to make a bargain,” Yaldabaoth murmurs, sounding almost thoughtful. His deep voice vibrates all the way down to his tail tip, you discover. “But did not stop to consider he might not be worthy.”  
  
“I know I could be,” you say, and your voice is perfectly controlled.   
  
“'Could'. The boy says the word again. 'Could'.”  
  
The horn comes down again, tracing patterns down your ribs. It then goes over your shoulder and the sharp edge of the horn is pressed against your throat.  
  
You raise your head, expose your throat even more. Your back arches, your legs spread a little. Fuck it, you're committing to this.   
  
“He thinks he pleases this old one with words. He thinks he might buy a boon with a bag full of wind,” Yaldabaoth speaks.   
  
The horn presses a bit more against your throat. The tail begins moving faster. You are panting now, you can hear yourself. You find yourself caring less and less about Yaldabaoth's prattle.  
  
“Are words all this boy can amount to?” Yaldabaoth asks, as if musing out loud.  
  
“No,” you hiss. “No, and I will fuck up your world. I don't c-care if—hah—if I have to, ngh, kill every skeleton from here to the next universe and—ah—alchemize a sword out of their bones and a giant horsedick, I will—ah, fuck... fuck your shit into the next calendar year.”  
  
Yaldabaoth chuckles.  
  
“He  _will_ ” the denizen says. “Yes, that is much more acceptable.”  
  
You move your hips with the strokes of the tail. It stings like hell, feels raw, but you need to finish, you need it so bad right now, fuck, you just want to finish, you're almost, almost there, you just, you need to--  
  
The tail tip is removed suddenly, and you almost screech in frustration, no kidding, just an unironic, completely uncool screech like a teenage girl, but you sit back on your heels and you work yourself with your hand, a few rapid pumps, and you shudder with the impending orgasm, you feel yourself burn up with it.  
  
And then you're sitting on the floor holding your sore dick after getting jacked off by a creepy and possibly pedophilic snake monster.   
  
It's not the kind of afterglow you care to enjoy.  
  
Your shades and your sword have been set down before you. Yaldabaoth is gone, having receded into the shadows.  
  
“Come to me when you can prove you are worthy of bargaining,” his voice rings out. “You know what you must do.”  
  
You don't, actually, but he must really have faith in you if he even took a break from his annoying quirk to tell you so.  
  
You take some new clothes out of your sylladex. You dress yourself slowly, and leave the chamber with not even a backwards look.  
  
You check your shades and note that they recorded the entire encounter. You're thankful you shut off Lil Hal for this. You didn't expect the meeting to take the twist it did. You will have to take care to encrypt the footage and only analyze it when you're alone. You will figure out what Yaldabaoth meant and what you have to do.  
  
For now, you'll be glad to go home and keep an icepack pressed to your groin for a day or two.


End file.
